Val replied by doing as she was told; she was not in the habit of wasting words upon Manley; they seemed always to precipitate an unpleasant discussion of some sort, as if he took it for granted she disapproved of all he did or said, and was always upon the defensive. The calves came on, lumbering awkwardly in a half-hearted gallop, as if they had very little energy left. Their tongues protruded, their mouths dribbled a lathery foam, and their rough, sweaty hides told Val of the long chase--for she was wiser in the ways of the range land than she had been. She stood back, gently waving her ruffled white apron at them, and when they dodged into the corral, rolling eyes at her, she ran up and slammed the gate shut upon them, looped the chain around the post, and dropped the iron hook into a link to fasten it. Manley galloped up, threw himself off his panting horse, and began to unsaddle. “Get some wood and start a fire, and put the iron in, Val,” he told her brusquely. Val looked at him quickly. “Now? Supper's all ready, Manley. There's no hurry about branding them, is there?” And she added: “Dear me! The round-up must have just skimmed the top off this range last spring. You've had to brand a lot of calves that were missed.” “What the devil is it to you?” he demanded roughly. “I want that fire, madam, and I want it _now_. I rather think I knew when I want to brand without asking your advice.” Val curved her lips scornfully, shrugged and obeyed She was used to that sort of thing, and she did not mind very much. He had brutalized by degrees, and by degrees she had hardened. He could rouse no feeling now but contempt. “If you'll kindly wait until I put back the supper,” she said coldly. “I suppose in your zeal one need not sacrifice your food; you're still rather particular about that. I observe.” Manley was leading his horse to the stable, and, though he answered something, the words were no more than a surly mumble. “He's been drinking again,” Val decided dispassionately, on the way to the house. “I suppose he carried a bottle in his pocket--and emptied it.” She was not long; there was a penalty of profane reproach attached to delay, however slight, when Manley was in that mood. She had the fire going and the VP iron heating by the time he had stabled and fed his horse, and had driven the calves into the smaller pen. He drove a big, line-backed heifer into a corner, roped and tied her down with surprising dexterity, and turned impatiently. “Come! Isn't that iron ready yet?” Val, on the other side of the fence, drew it out and inspected it indifferently. “It is not, Mr. Fleetwood. If you are in a very great hurry, why not apply your temper to it--and a few choice remarks?” “Oh, don't try to be sarcastic--it's too pathetic. Kick a little life into that fire.”